Hope In The Prison Of Despair
by Ys
Summary: [Complete] What one Severus Snape can think and feel in his dungeons and how his perception can change with a simple event.
1. Despair

**Disclaimer**: never did and never will own it. J.K. Rowling does.   
**Spoilers**: Order of the Phoenix 

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**~ Hope In The Prison Of Despair - Despair ~**

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Title shamefully stolen from the painting of Evelyn De Morgan, 1887. Information about this artist can be found here: http: // www.artmagick.com / artists / morgan.aspx 

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Severus Snape sat at his desk, looking without seeing them at the bare walls of his home. A home inside a home, really, since it could be summed up to three rooms in the immensity of Hogwarts. Three rooms for his private quarters, plus his office and the Potions classroom. They were fully his, no matter who was Headmaster, no matter who were the other teachers. They were his until he died. Nobody would ever free him from this prison. 

The chilly dungeons had long since woven their frosty shell around the place and even spells lost their efficiency against them. The hissing fire could never bring enough heat to the room to make it cosy or only barely comfortable. The warming charms were swiftly consumed and, the time to take a shower, the temperatures scale went from scalding to tolerably tepid or from warm to glacial. 

The students often complained about the cold in the Potions classroom. Little did they know that, even if they could see their breaths during winter, powerful spells had been cast on the walls, concentrating the hostility to the water pouring from the gargoyle's mouth in the corner, thus protecting the students from the tendency of the dungeons to swallow everything that was remotely connected to comfort and warmth. Maybe that was why he had been relegated here: Albus had known that even the dungeons wouldn't want anything to do with him. 

He stood up suddenly and paced the Spartan space. His chambers, his private office, back to his chambers, briefly wishing that he were a Gryffindor so he could roar like a lion in cage. In his chambers, the depressing darkness surrounded him tightly, just allowing him to vaguely distinguish the shape of the furniture. Nothing fancy, he had no one to impress. Not even the house elves came here; he had threatened them with clothes and when the problem with Dobby had arisen, he had simply showed him the pickled animals in glass jars adorning the walls of the Potions classroom. Dobby had nodded fearfully, his big ears flapping around, and was never seen again. 

Back into his office, he eyed it critically. Simple furniture, functional and strict. It would do him no good to wallow in comfort when life outside was harsh. Severus Snape was nothing but a realistic man. Even the portraits had been taken away, the paintings protesting against the sinister surroundings, and their empty emplacements, a bit clearer on the walls, were silently mocking him, the last prisoner. 

The only decorative thing was the fire, which was completely useless in itself, since a blazing inferno wouldn't have had any power against the stinging coldness of the dungeons. In fact, the fire was purely functional also, now that he thought of it: it allowed Albus to call him by Floo. The Headmaster was none too fond of coming down here, it would have affected his cheerful mood. 

There was nothing personal in his quarters, except maybe the books, all perfectly lined up, with the same smooth cover, the same size and even the same weight, the result of a spell that he was quite proud of, even though it had ripped the books of their personality. Or maybe the clothes evenly folded in the half-hidden wardrobe could speak a little about him, then probably not. Those were functional clothes, each similar to the other, in hostile black, simple costumes for his role of the evil teacher. There was nothing. Nobody could say that theses rooms were the ones where Severus Snape had lived once he had passed away. 

Shaking his head with a half-hearted scowl, he strode straight to his workroom, a room that even not Albus was aware of. He wanted to escape the dreary silence except for the insistent whistling of the wind that had forced his voice into the silky whisper he was now reputed for, just to counter this maddening noise. He closed the door behind him, falling relaxing slightly in the welcoming darkness of the room. A flick of his wand and there was light, not enough to hurt his eyes, but soft enough to chase away the gloomy shadows that lingered around in the obscurity. 

This was his safe place, his secret garden though he would have sneered at the use of this expression. He came here when life outside was taking too much of a toll on him, when he had to take his mind away from the war, the dead and the students. In here, hidden from the rest of the world, he could create beautiful and tortured items. Behind the closed door was the core of Severus Snape's personality. 

This time, he didn't select the short blade he favoured for when he came here, but he took saw and rasp. The long wood plank was set on the cutting table and he could already see the result in his mind. There was no need for a plan or guidelines to saw; the wood would show him. He knew exactly what he was going to do. He had thought about it often enough before. Calmly, almost tenderly, he ran his hand on the plank and even the wood was smooth under his fingers, like everything else in his life, except maybe the mark imprinted on the flesh of his inner arm. 

He sawed and rasped carefully, until every new plank had the exact desired size and every tiny splinter had gone and he could run his hands on the sawed wood and feel the evenness of the cut. Then he began to cut little tenons, perfectly cylindrical, fitting exactly the holes in the sides of the planks. There would be no visible marks on how it was assembled yet it would be solid and resistant. And so, slowly, methodically, Severus Snape built his own coffin. 


	2. Hope

**Disclaimer**: never did and never will own it. J.K. Rowling does.   
**Spoilers**: Order of the Phoenix 

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**~ Hope In The Prison Of Despair - Hope ~**

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The wood structure was almost completed when he heard the alarm of his wards warning him of the imminent arrival of an unwanted guest. He put his tools down, brushed imaginary sawdust from his black robes – he knew quite a few handy spells – and banished all the dust in a corner. Then he stepped outside of his workroom, closing the door behind him and locking it at the same time. The door to his office opened and closed behind the newcomer and there, standing in a beam of light he hadn't noticed was there before was Hermione Granger, the fire playing on her hair and turning some locks into a bright copper instead of the shiny chestnut they usually were. 

She smiled, gently, warmly, and it brightened the room. 

"Miss Granger–" he began. 

She laughed gaily and the very walls seemed shocked of this manifestation of life and happiness. 

"Back to 'Miss Granger', are we now, Severus?" she teased him. "The war is over, you are finally free; come celebrate with us." 

Never before had he noticed how her youth and eager mind could chase away all thoughts of the draughty dungeons of his mind. He stared at her like a starved man looked at food and water and noticed everything: her sparkling eyes, the rosy glow of her skin, her parted, inviting lips, her tousled hair as if by a persistent whiff rather than the bitter wind he was used to. Then her hand was on his and he was flooded with sudden warmth that he couldn't deny. 

"Severus? Are you feeling well?" 

There was concern, a distinct, soft, delicious concern, in her voice, worry in her eyes and her free hand reached up to brush a stray lock away from his face. 

"Severus?" she repeated anxiously. 

She was so close that he could smell her hair, a sweet fragance vaguely familiar to him. The crackling fire was drawing gold, red and orange patterns on her half-tamed locks and suddenly he knew what memories she had awaken in him. He was thinking of the little gems of the citrus family, with its five-parted, white flowers and its gold orange peel. 

Just looking at her, he could feel the taste of the kumquats invade his mouth, the outer layer spicy, the inner layer sweet and the pulp tangy. He had almost forgotten about it, when it was for him the only happy memory of his childhood, the decorative kumquat trees in the hallway, evenly lined up but whose branches nobody, not even his father, could tame into a defined pattern. It had been his own personal revenge, being attached to the trees that alone dared to rebel against his father. 

"Severus, you don't belong here, come with me," she insisted gently. 

He felt like he was bursting, his heart dilating, pushing against the icy shell life had pressed upon him. 

"I…" 

It was as if he hadn't spoken for long and his voice was raw and dark. 

"I'll be there shortly," he completed, taking his decision. 

She smiled, a little sun in his night, and clasped tightly his hand before blushing and running away. 

He went back to his workroom, turning away from the ebony coffin. Almost absent-mindedly, he selected a small piece of clear mahogany taking up the size of his palm and began sculpting it without really thinking of what he was doing. His fingers were flexible and knowledgeable and though his mind wasn't really on his work, he didn't cut himself, even if the tip of the blade sometimes brushed against the skin of the heel of his hand. The sculpture was tiny, but his movements were precise and no slip was allowed. Severus Snape didn't accept less than perfection. 

The sculpture was of a girl with bushy hair that she had managed to discipline a bit since then. It was of Hermione Granger the day he had understood that she wasn't a student anymore but a colleague in the war and that she had no intention of having him ignoring her. He still remembered how her eyes had blazed furiously while she was explaining to him that she had a brain, _thank you very much_, and that he should try to put it to their advantage rather than let it rot in some obscure department at the Ministry. 

There, in his sculpture, instead of having her fists clenched as to hit him like she had had them then, her right hand was open toward him and two kumquats rested in her palm. She was offered him the seed of his rebellion and he would be a fool to overlook it. 

He turned around to face his hand-built coffin, the only fate he had thought was waiting for him just moments ago. He pointed his wand at it and murmured a single word that spoke of the leap of faith he was taking: 

"_Incendio_." 

He watched the coffin burn and a fierce pleasure invaded him as the heat caressed his face. In the writhing flames, he could see Hermione dance, beckoning him, her hands held out toward him, and he would gladly have stepped forth to hold her in his arms had he not known that she was nothing but the product of his imagination. No matter how much warmth her mere presence could bring, she was no fire spirit, even though she had fuelled the raging hope in his heart without knowing it. 

That was it. He breathed deeply the smell of smoke and ash, clutched tightly the statuette in his hand and left his workroom, his private rooms, his dungeons. She was right: he was free. And his first act of freedom would be to seek her out. She would understand, when she saw the sculpture of her and the kumquats. After all, she smelled the sweet fragance of their white flowers, she felt warm and soft, and he could imagine that her lips had the tangy taste of the kumquat pulp. She felt like home to him. 


End file.
